


Dream Come True

by annalore



Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Angst, HALL OF FAME, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-03
Updated: 2012-10-09
Packaged: 2019-07-15 07:56:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16058840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annalore/pseuds/annalore
Summary: The night of the 2012 Hall of Fame ceremony, Adam and Punk find that they have more in common than they ever thought.





	1. Everyone's Hero

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this before the HoF ceremony (yes, back in April), and consequently before I knew about the haircut. So the haircut hasn’t happened. Also, this plot bunny sort of turned into a whole universe in my head, but I’m not good at writing long stories, so it might turn out to be a collection of short pieces. I was agonizing over this story for weeks before I got inspired and started writing “Long Way Down” and I figured I might as well just get it done and posted.

Adam knew he was supposed to be happy.  He knew that when people congratulated him, he was supposed to smile and say what an honor it all was.  And he did, he made all the right noises, but it all felt empty, hollow.  Everywhere he looked, people were celebrating and none of it touched him.  He was finding this weekend increasingly hard to bear and it had barely even begun.

The Hall of Fame after party was in full swing, and after making a perfunctory round through the room, he found himself sitting off in a dark corner, holding a beer between his knees and wishing he were drunk.  Actually drinking would help with that, but he knew from experience he’d only regret it later.  When it came right down to it, he was too old for that shit, if he’d ever even enjoyed it to begin with.

A slow clapping interrupted his reverie.  “Well, if it isn’t Mr. Hall of Fame himself,” the current WWE Champion’s sardonic voice drifted over to him.  "No, sorry, that's Shawn Michaels."

He looked up to see the smug, self satisfied smirk on Punk’s face.  "If it isn't the champ," he replied in kind. "No, wait, that's John Cena."

"Funny," Punk answered. Adam hoped he hadn't just encouraged him. "That's really cute and I've absolutely never heard that before."

"You want something original? How about you go bother someone else."

“You know, you could just tell me to fuck off,” Punk responded, his voice now full of mirth..

“Fuck off,” he said, deadpan.

If anything, Punk looked more amused.  He was clean shaven, dressed in formal wear, as everyone, but somehow he made it look like a mockery.  Still, he looked undeniably good, better than Adam ever managed to look in a tux, as much as he hated to admit it.

“I think not,” he said, taking a seat in the chair next to Adam.  “I didn’t say I’d actually do it,” he said, looking bemused at Adam’s disgruntled glare.

“What are you even doing here?” Adam asked, annoyance starting to creep in.  “I’d accuse you of being drunk, but I guess we know that’s not it.”

“What about you?” Punk asked, gesturing to the beer in Adam’s hands.  “Celebrating, or drowning your sorrows?”

Adam looked down at the bottle, then dismissively placed it on the table next to him.  It was his first, and it was still half full, but the point was not without merit.  He’d been imagining it, if not actually doing it.  “What do I have to be sorry about?” he asked defensively.  “I’m a Hall of Famer now.”

“Ah, right.  Moving speech, by the way.”  Punk took a swig from the bottle of Diet Pepsi in his hand.  “Tell me, what’s it like, having all your dreams come true?”

There was that usual mocking edge that made Adam want to tell him to fuck off again, but for real this time.  But then there was something else in his tone, a hint of wistfulness, maybe even understanding, that tempered the flash of anger.

“Why don’t you tell me,” he said, looking sidelong at Punk. “You’re everyone’s hero these days.”  It was quick, but he saw the grimace that crossed Punk’s face briefly as he rolled his bottle of soda between his hands.

“Nothing lasts forever,” he replied finally.  “Not in professional wrestling, not anywhere.”  He looked over at Adam again, his clear green eyes for once not mocking or amused, just intent.  “The trick is to enjoy it while you can.”

Otherwise you’ll be sitting in a dark corner at your own Hall of Fame celebration, he thought.  Loud music played in the background and the party went on without them.  They should have been the guests of honor, but it was like nobody even cared that they were there. Adam looked uneasily into Punk’s eyes and saw not scorn, but an invitation.

“What did you say about fucking off?” he asked, and Punk’s lips curved in another smile, this one full of promise.

**********

“I could have sworn you said ‘fuck off,’ not ‘go off and fuck,’” Punk’s voice came from the bed next to him, soft, mocking, bemused.

Adam summoned up the energy to turn on his side and look at Punk.  Punk was also on his side, his head resting on his pillowed hands in a way that was disturbingly similar to the call for his finishing move.  He was flushed, his hair wild and debauched, but his eyes were widely innocent.

Adam snorted.  “Yeah, you looked really surprised.  That must be why you started tearing your clothes off as soon as we got the door closed.”

“That suit was uncomfortable,” Punk responded, his voice a little too credulous to be believed.  “It’s not like I was doing a strip tease.  You’re the one who put your hand down my pants.”

“I seem to recall you saying something about enjoying myself while I could,” Adam countered, his eyes traveling down Punk’s body, the line of his torso, the curve of his hip, the expanse of bare thigh, all flushed with exertion and covered in a sheen of drying sweat.  Remembering what it felt like beneath him, moving, straining.

“So I did,” Punk said softly, and there was a note of something Adam didn’t quite understand in his voice.  He looked back up, into Punk’s eyes, and found them equally unreadable.  “And did you?” he asked casually, almost as if the answer was nothing to him.

Adam snorted.  Did he?  He saw a shadow pass over Punk’s face before he answered.  “I can barely remember the last time I enjoyed myself that much.”

“Yeah, right,” Punk sighed, rolling onto his back and resting his hands on his abdomen.  Adam itched to touch him, wrap an arm around his waist, press his face to the long line of his neck, and just stay there until morning.  He didn’t remember ever feeling this way about CM Punk before, but he’d always been the type to get sentimental.  Somehow, he didn’t think Punk was.

“And what about you?” he asked.  He’d been the one to initiate things, Punk was right.  It had been his move, for all Punk had come up to him, and he wasn’t really sure what the other man had gotten out of it.

“Well, there’s a first time for everything, isn’t there?” Punk said, a weak smile passing over his lips, his hands clenching briefly.

Adam opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came out.  He closed it again.  He wasn’t sure what to say.  This night just kept getting more and more confusing, and now he had another thing he wasn’t sure how to feel about.  He reached out a hand –

“Don’t,” Punk whispered, and Adam let his hand drop to the sheets halfway between them.  “I knew what I was doing.  And I did enjoy myself.”

“And what were you doing?” he couldn’t help asking, remember how Punk had come up to him, started a conversation.  Had almost provoked his proposition with his mocking smile and knowing eyes.

“Escaping a fucking dull party,” Punk answered.  He tapped his fingers against his skin restively.  “Looking for entertainment.”  He turned his head, and suddenly his grin was back in full force.  “Throwing you a life preserver.”

Adam’s eyes widened in surprise.  Maybe he’d been right earlier, when he’d thought there was more to Punk’s question than mocking or derision.  What’s it like having all your dreams come true?  It kind of fucking sucks, he thought viciously.  And sometimes it was a bit like drowning, but he hadn’t expected anyone else to understand that.

“We barely know each other,” he said softly.

“Yeah.  Right.”  Punk’s smile faded again.  “Why would you want to hold on to me?”

He turned away from Adam and started to roll out of the bed, but Adam stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.  “No.  Wait.”  He wrapped an arm around Punk’s waist, dragged him back until they were flush.  Punk braced a hand against Adam’s, but he didn’t try to pull away.  “I mean… what made you think I needed saving?”

“I know what it’s like, alright?”  Punk’s body was stiff against Adam’s and his voice was edgy, maybe angry.

“Alright,” Adam whispered, pressing kisses to the back of Punk’s neck, his shoulder.  He felt Punk relax against him a degree at a time.  He moved his hand down Punk’s stomach, skimming the curve of his belly and heading south.  That’s when Punk stopped him.

“Don’t,” he said, his fingers wrapped around Adam’s wrist, his grip gentle but insistent.  “I don’t want to do that right now,” he added in an undertone, as though he felt more explanation would be needed.

“Alright,” Adam murmured again.  He pressed one last kiss to Punk’s back, right where his spine met his neck, then moved to pull away, but Punk’s hand was still holding on to his wrist.

“No, don’t,” he thought he heard Punk whisper.  Any other night, Adam might have suspected he was being jerked around, might have been angry.  But for once, he was just glad he wasn’t the only one who was confused.

“I wanted to do this,” Adam said as he pulled Punk closer, let himself relax.  Punk released his wrist, let his hand rest over Adam’s.  “I didn’t think you’d want me to.”

“Yeah, well.  You barely know me,” Punk answered softly.

As he closed his eyes and breathed in the scent of Punk’s skin, Adam thought that maybe they knew each other better than they’d thought.  For the first time since arriving in Florida, he felt like he wasn’t in danger of drifting away, and it was all because of the man falling asleep in his arms.

**********

Adam woke to sunlight pouring on his back and ringing in his ears.  At first, he was groggy and disoriented, unsure of where he was.  He reached out across the bed and was surprised that there was no one there.  Then he was surprised that he was surprised, because he didn’t share his bed with anyone these days.  His groping hand found the source of the ringing, and as his fingers wrapped around the device, he was aware that it wasn’t his phone.

“Shit, sorry,” came a hurried voice from the opposite side of bed.  The sound of the words, gruff and not all that apologetic all things considered, brought back the night before like a bolt.  Adam cracked an eye wide enough to see CM Punk’s tattooed hand reach out and grab his iPhone.  Their skin didn’t touch, but it was so close he could almost feel it.  The bed shifted under Punk’s weight as he sat on the edge and held a muted conversation with whoever was on the other end of the line.

“Twenty minutes,” he said.  “No, make that thirty.  I’ll meet you.  No, the lobby is fine.”

Punk sighed as he dropped his phone back on the bed.  Adam looked up at him, blowing loose strands of hair out of his face.  It was then he noticed that Punk was already fully dressed, and not in the suit he’d been wearing the night before.  He blinked, taking in the cargo shorts and t-shirt, damp hair and bare feet.

“My handlers,” Punk said with a scowl.

“I remember it well,” Adam answered with a nostalgic smile.  It had only been a year ago that he’d been in that exact position.  But he knew he shouldn’t think about that now.  That was what had gotten him into this position, waking up with Punk in his bed.  Or with Punk’s phone in his bed, at any rate.

“Breakfast?” Punk asked abruptly, pulling him out of his chain of thought.  Without waiting for an answer, he pocketed his phone and got up from the bed.  He crossed to the other side of the room.  Adam squinted against the sunlight as he turned, the open curtains exposing a bright Miami morning.  When his vision adjusted, he saw that Punk was standing at the desk in the corner, which was laden with takeout bags.

He glanced at the clock as he heaved himself out of bed.  It was just past seven am.  He looked over at Punk quizzically as he rummaged in his suitcase for clothes.  “How long have you been up?”  He didn’t point out that it had been a late night for both of them; not while he was still naked.

“Couple of hours,” Punk said absently while unpacking the bags.  “I went for a run, got food, showered, changed.”  Adam caught a sidelong glance from Punk as he slipped into the chair next to him, now attired in boxers and a loose pair of sweatpants.  He could have sworn that Punk was checking him out.

“Sorry about my phone,” Punk apologized again, still absently but this time sounding more like he might actually mean it.  “I thought I had a few more minutes before they started in, or I wouldn’t have left it.”

“No problem,” Adam said, surveying the desk.  It looked like Punk had bought some of every breakfast food known to man.  He helped himself without comment and they both dug in.

“So, why’d you come back, anyway?” Adam asked through a mouthful of pancake a few minutes later.

Punk was silent for a minute.  He tapped his plastic fork against his paper plate a couple of times.  Then he shrugged.  “I don’t really believe in one night stands, you know?  I figured we should at least talk.”

Adam set his plate down on the desk, washed his food down with a swallow of coffee.  “So, you wanna talk about it?”

“No.  Not really,” Punk said.  The faintest hint of a wry smile seemed to acknowledge to Adam that he knew he was blowing hot and cold.

“This doesn’t have to be a one night stand,” Adam said without thinking.  He wasn’t sure what impulse prompted him to ask for more of this maddening uncertainty.  Then Punk looked up at him with those eyes that could hold a thousand promises and were accompanied by a body that could fulfill every one.  Eyes that could look right through him.

“Come on, when are we ever going to see each other?  Summerslam?  Next year at Wrestlemania?”

“Tonight.  I’m still here tonight.”

Punk sighed.  “And that’s what, a two night stand?”  He put his plate down on the desk and stood up.  Adam caught his belt loop as he turned to walk away.  Punk looked down at him, a tense frown on his face.

“I want to see you again,” Adam told him.  He slid his hand up Punk’s hip and under his shirt until his fingers just brushed bare skin.  An unmistakable shudder ran through Punk’s body.

“You mean you want to do me again,” Punk said, his voice mirroring the tension in his expression.

“You know, I just don’t get you,” Adam said, shaking his head.  “Last night you were offended at the idea that I might _not_ want you.  So, which is it, Punk?  Do you _want_ me to want you? Or are you really just screwing me around?”

Punk’s eyes flashed with an emotion that Adam couldn’t identify.  “I really don’t have time for this,” he said, sounding angry but less than decisive.

“We’ve got twenty minutes,” Adam said with a glance at the clock.  “Plenty of time.”  He hooked his fingers in Punk’s waistband and pulled him forward.  Punk took a stumbling step closer and sucked in a breath.

“Twenty minutes?” Punk repeated skeptically.  “That’s plenty of time to you?”

“Plenty of time for a taste,” Adam said, then wagged his tongue demonstratively, his hands working on the button of Punk’s shorts.

“You know what to do with that?” Punk asked, and Adam shook his head at Punk’s glib tone.

"Nobody's ever complained," he said with a shrug as he pulled down Punk's shorts and underwear. "And I guess you're eager to find out."

"Yeah, well, I'll be sure to fill out the comment card," Punk retorted, his cool tone at odds with his obvious arousal. Adam leaned in, about to take his first taste, then paused. He looked up at Punk and tried to gauge the emotion in his eyes, but failed.  “You're not going to tell me no again, are you?"

“I don’t have time for this,” Punk repeated impatiently, before doing the exact opposite of what Adam would’ve expected. Instead of pulling himself away, he reached out and pulled Adam in until his lips bumped against his hard cock.

“I guess that answers that,” he muttered to himself as he braced his hands on Punk’s hips, inhaled deeply.

“You did this,” Punk said, gesturing at his erection.  “You fix it.”  He trailed his hand across Adam’s jaw, his thumb brushing Adam’s lower lip, pushing insistently to open his mouth.  Adam parted his teeth and nipped lightly at Punk's finger, then sucked it into his mouth and ran his tongue slowly over the calloused skin. Punk groaned, his eyes fixed on Adam's lips.

Adam released Punk's thumb with a pop. "Enjoy the sample?" he asked with a grin. "Or do you need any more convincing."

"Just shut up and suck me," Punk said in a strangled tone. Adam obliged, swallowing Punk's cock in one motion before pulling back, putting his tongue to use.  He wasn’t bragging when he said he was good at this, and he used all his skill on Punk, licking and sucking until Punk was straining against him, desperate to get off.

“Fuck, Adam…” Punk breathed raggedly.  It couldn’t be the first time Punk had uttered his name, but it surged through Adam like a wave even as Punk’s hips surged forward, seeking his release.  Adam gave up any attempt at sucking and let Punk’s erection slide down his throat as he moaned around it in helpless arousal.  “Adam…” Punk groaned in warning as his body went rigid, stopped moving for a long moment before he was coming, fingers tangled in Adam’s hair.  Adam rode it out with him, hands gripping Punk’s hips as Punk's come filled his mouth and he swallowed.  When it was over, he felt almost like he’d gone over the edge too.

As he let Punk’s spent cock slip from his mouth, Punk leaned forward, his body caving in bonelessly.  Adam pulled him in gracelessly, supporting Punk with an arm around his waist until he was practically sitting in his lap, an arm around Adam’s neck.  The chair groaned under the burden of their combined weight.  In his post-orgasmic haze, Punk curled into Adam’s side, his leg thrown over the other man’s.

Punk’s groping hand found its way into to Adam’s lap, landing on his hard on as if by chance.  He stroked almost absently and Adam let out a shaky breath.  Punk lifted his head to look at him as if he had just noticed what he was doing, studied him with glittering eyes as he moved his hand experimentally.  Punk’s shorts were still bunched around his thighs and Adam grabbed a handful of bare ass and used it for leverage as he pushed against Punk’s hand.  The chair groaned again in concert with Adam, protest mixing with pleasure.

Just as things were starting to get good, Adam’s watch beeped the half hour from the bedside table and ruined it all.  Punk sighed and dropped his head.  “Shit, I gotta go,” he mumbled into Adam’s shoulder.

Adam reluctantly withdrew his hands from Punk’s skin, knowing what the consequences would be if he ended up late to any of his promotional events or angered the handlers.  Punk extricated himself slowly, looking almost sheepish as he stood in front of the chair, barefoot and disheveled, putting his clothing back in order.

Punk disappeared into the bathroom without saying another word.  Adam heard water running for a minute, then Punk was back, shoes and socks in hand.  He sat down in a chair by the door, his shoulders hunched in concentration as he pulled on his socks.  Adam shook himself out of his daze and got out of his chair, palming the spare keycard he’d left on the TV stand.

“Did you mean it?” Punk asked softly, seemingly focused on his sneakers, his eyes carefully turned away from Adam.  “You want to see me tonight?”

Adam walked up to Punk and stood next to his chair.  He saw Punk’s hands freeze on his shoelaces for a second, but he didn’t acknowledge Adam’s presence otherwise.  Adam held out the keycard and waved it in front of Punk’s face.  “I want to see you.  I’ll be here after the show, come up any time.”

Punk took the key and stuffed it in his pocket so quickly Adam might have thought it was burning.  Finished with his shoes, he stood to leave.  “If…  It’ll probably be late.”

“Any time,” Adam repeated.

Punk stood there for a moment, indecision written on his face as he pushed at the inside of his cheek with his tongue, then sucked his lip ring into his mouth to chew on it.  Finally, he stepped forward until they were just shy of touching.  “I guess I’ll see you there, then.”

“Yeah, see you.”  He leaned in to kiss Punk goodbye, not sure if it would be welcome.  To his surprise, Punk reached out and wrapped his arms around Adam’s waist, pulling him in closer.

He groaned as their bodies made contact, could feel Punk’s lips curve into a smile against his as he felt Adam’s erection pressing against his hip.  “Sorry about that,” Punk murmured with a chuckle, again hardly sounding sorry at all.

 “I’ll live.”  Adam shrugged philosophically.

“I wouldn’t want you think I was jerking you around,” Punk said pointedly.  He still didn’t sound sorry, but Adam could have sworn he heard a hint of something in his voice.  Regret?

“That’s not the part of me I’m worried about,” Adam responded.  They locked eyes for a long moment.

Before Punk could say anything, his phone went off in his pocket.  He muttered an obscenity as he silenced it with no more than a glance at the display.  “All right, I’m out,” he said, taking a deliberate step backward.  He looked at Adam for a long moment before turning away and picking up his bag and hefting it over his shoulder.

Adam watched as Punk walked to the entryway of the hotel room.  At the last moment, when Punk’s hand was on the doorknob, he called out to him.  “Hey.”

Punk half turned to look back at him.  Adam could already see that he was someone different than he had been since they left the party together the night before.  Here was the CM Punk who could watch the world burn around him and laugh.  The CM Punk who had probably lit the fire to begin with.

“Remember.  You’re everyone’s hero.  They paid to see _you_ ,” he said.  The answering hard glitter in Punk’s eyes and the fierce smile he gave him almost took Adam’s breath away.

“And don’t get hurt,” he added softly, but Punk had already turned away.  He was out the door and gone so quickly that Adam wasn’t even sure he’d heard, and he was alone again.  Alone, and a mess of emotion and confusion, trembling for the man who for a night had made it better and worse all at once.

“Tonight,” he muttered to himself as he headed into the bathroom to take a shower.  Suddenly it seemed impossibly far away.


	2. Fierce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He watches you.

He watches you dress with eyes that can only be described as hungry.  It’s just the two of you in the room and he can look with impunity as you prepare yourself for war.

That’s how you always think of it, whether you’re in a match or not.  You go out to do battle, and your gear is your armor.  It makes you fierce, a force to be reckoned with.  It makes you a different person than you are everywhere else in your life.

It’s right that he want this man that you are now, you think as you stoop to lace up a boot.  This character who fears nothing, not pain, not ridicule, not even defeat.  Who takes delight, perverse or otherwise, in all the world has to offer.

No gimmicks needed, you’ve been known to say.  You are no gimmick, and yet, the person you are out there can bear little resemblance to the one that exists when the lights are no longer on you.

You pull your kneepads on, then kickpads.  His eyes never leave you, and you wonder for a moment if it’s you he wants at all, or just this.  The familiarity of a routine he misses, even if he says he doesn’t.  You try to put it out of your mind.  You wouldn’t ask that question even at the best of times.

Finally, you go to reach for your tape.  You find it’s not where you left it, and you look up to see he has it in his hand.  He offers it to you, an unreadable half smile on his face.  Maybe he’s caught in a memory – you’re not sure how long you knew him before the first time you saw his bare wrists – but you want no part of it.

You step forward to take it the tape from him, your transformation not yet complete.  He withdraws it, though, reaches out with his other hand.  A bit of subtle pressure on your hip, and you’re stepping closer until his nose is all but pressed into your crotch.

His hand skims down your bare thigh, and you imagine you feel yourself tremble.  You’re used to being touched by other men, but not like this.  He inhales deliberately, and you think of how easy it would be to let him have what he wants.  To let him devour you, both literally and figuratively.

“Not now,” you whisper hoarsely, though you want it badly.  In this hazy in between state, you have neither the strength to reject or accept.  And you worry, as his mouth presses obscenely against the bulge in your trunks, about what it is he wants from you.  You’re strong enough to care, weak enough to know it makes a difference.

When he pulls back, you almost follow him, but the hand on your thigh holds you in place.  He’s looking up at you with that same mysterious smile, and you hate him for just a second.  If there’s one thing in the world you don’t find amusing, it’s this, and he… you don’t even know.  You didn’t want to know before, but you do now.  You wish you could know, without being told, what goes on in his head.

“Later, then,” he says, his hand tracing the curve of your hip, his thumb settling in the hollow of your pelvic bone.  It’s more a statement than a question, but you don’t mind.  Later, you won’t need to be strong.  Later, you can melt into his arms, melt into him if he lets you.  Melt until there’s nothing left.

He presses the roll of tape in your hand, as if to seal the promise, and for a moment you’re net even sure what it’s for.  You take it back across the dressing room, sit, and try to make sense of what you’re doing.  Your hands move of their own volition, absent direction from your brain, making familiar wraps.  Taking out your sharpie and drawing your trademark Xs. 

You stand up a man transformed.  You’ve shed Phil Brooks, if you ever were him to begin with.  You roll your neck to get the kinks out, bounce a little on the balls of your feet.  You can almost hear the strains of your music in the rush of blood in your ears.  You head for the door –

And something makes you turn.  He’s watching you with a look you’re tempted to describe as wistful.  You think, distantly, that he wants something from you that you don’t even know if you have to give.  But still, you go to him, touch his cheek clumsily with taped hand.  “Later,” you say, and he nods, his hair brushing against your fingers. 

You are strong, you tell yourself.  You are fierce.  You are not the man you used to be.  You are CM Punk, and you are a force to be reckoned with.  And yet, as you slip out the door and let it close behind you, you can still feel his eyes on you. 

You wonder if you’ll feel them even out in the arena, one pair among millions.  And later, when you’re not a conquering hero, not the war wounded, but just a man… will he still think there’s anything worth watching?


End file.
